


Strength ten, Intelligence ten

by Pinophyta



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Flashbacks Within Flashbacks, M/M, Rivalry, im sorry for all the flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 22:49:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12068547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinophyta/pseuds/Pinophyta
Summary: The Courier climbs through the ranks of the Legion, and Vulpes Inculta isn't too thrilled about it. Specially when the man ends outranking him.





	Strength ten, Intelligence ten

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt at the atomic wrangler kinkmeme (https://atomicwrangler.dreamwidth.org/325.html?thread=64837#cmt64837)
> 
> "A Legion Courier finds himself surpassing Vulpes in rank, and takes advantage of that to boss the head of the Frumentarii around a bit. Vulpes, though a bit indignant, doesn't object, and certainly doesn't try to dissuade him."
> 
> The story ended not being as smutty as that prompt suggested, but I hope you enjoy it regardless. The Courier is referred to as "the Courier" in this story. He's based on a favorite build of mine for New Vegas, a sort of "battle medic", hence the title.

Vulpes winced. Alone in his tent, he would allow himself to show weakness, if only for just a moment. The healing powders were doing their work, but not as fast as he'd like.

The bitter taste of blood was still in his mouth, but at least his spit came clear now. He looked up from the basin, into a mirror shard tied to a tent post. He looked like hell. The wound on his forehead would leave a scar. The ones on his scalp were less noticeable, but they were giving him a strong headache. His left eye was bloodshot, and the skin around it was getting darker. At least it wasn't horribly inflamed anymore.

His appearance now was better than two hours ago, all things considered, when he had been presented to Caesar for his report. His beat up look only made his failure feel a bit more miserable. Caesar was quiet. He issued no punishment for Vulpes, but the disgust in his cold words was obvious.

Vulpes expected no pity from him, so when he didn't get it, it didn't hurt. He was dismissed, and just as he was leaving the tent, he overheard news about the Courier's impending, and triumphant, return.

The way Caesar's face brightened at the news hurt more than his wounds, in a way. He left to clean up, while all around him the camp prepared to receive their champion.

The Courier had a new name nowadays. Latin, a true Legionary's name, but to Vulpes he would always be “the Courier”. He would not forget the man's origins, as Caesar seemed to have done. He could not help it. Every time he looked at his face he saw the same square-jawed farm boy from the west he had met on the ruins of Nipton.

Except Vulpes had made a huge mistake that day, and that would always hurt more than any split lips or broken ribs. He had misjudged the man. Severely.

His clothes were humble and worn, practical but slightly awkward. Like a boy who had grown too much, too fast, and to poor parents would wear. Only he was a man now, and what a specimen too. He was tall, his shoulders broad, and his musculature better developed than some of the Legion's better fed, elite soldiers. On that aspect, he was impressive.

But nothing about his stance or posture spoke of military training, not even NCR, incompetent as they were. The man Vulpes met that day was a humble farmer. He spoke with a thick accent, and looked at the gruesome scene around him with caution, almost apologetic. He used scavenged weapons, carried barely enough ammo to get by, and he accepted Vulpes' word with a meek smile. He was nothing but a beast of burden, a farm worker, who had probably worked in his parents' homestead until he was forced by necessity to work as a courier.

The man kept the ruse for months, although probably not in front of Caesar. The first time he dropped the accent in front of Vulpes, he was speechless. Hearing clear, articulate words coming from that man didn't quite register in his mind at first. The naive farmer was dead in that moment, and in front of him stood a stranger that had beaten him at his own game. He didn't even remember what he said, it had been something inconsequential. All that mattered was the message: “I can lie, and I do it better than you.”

After that he dropped the accent altogether, and his gait changed too. Some of his layers began to show, although Vulpes always seemed to be the last one to find out.

That he was an excellent fighter, he knew. Everybody did. His body was a weapon, honed for combat through vicarious training and discipline.

His talent for strategy began to show as soon as Caesar gave him command over a group of soldiers. He achieved small victories that greatly boosted morale, and along with it he brought invaluable intel as well.

He knew weapons, pre-war technology, a bit of robotics, and his cooking wasn't bad either. But the most puzzling skill he showed, and what truly cemented his position as Caesar's favorite, were the man's medical skills.

Rumors had begun spreading after his return from a recon mission gone awry. He returned with one of his men, a lowly recruit, hoisted on his shoulder. He had patched him up deftly, and in a few weeks he recovered full use of his leg.

Caesar was impressed. Wounded soldiers received care, but the Legion's compassion and medical resources were limited. The Courier could work practical solutions for many problems, and when he was given access to enough resources, he became an efficient physician on top of all of his other duties. He became well respected among recruits, who for the first time had someone invested on their well being. Of course, his healing ways were harsh and brutal, but his results were better than what most slaves could do. Morale went through the roof. Things began looking up for the Legion.

But Caesar wouldn't keep a field medic around just for his troops, if his talents didn't go beyond sewing wounds and cracking dislocated body parts into place. Once he trusted the man enough, he confided to him about his illness. And lo and behold, the Courier was absolutely qualified to perform the needed surgery. How convenient.

The Courier was a perfect gift from the god Mars himself, sent to the Legion to bring them to glory. It was only a matter of time until rumors about him being considered for Legate began to appear. Vulpes knew it. And he wished lightning would strike from the heavens and fuck the arrogant bastard up.

Nowadays, with Caesar fully recovered from his surgery, the Courier worked mostly as a spy in New Vegas. Sometimes his and Vulpes' paths crossed. He tried to avoid him, but he had created an NCR friendly persona that seemed to pop up anywhere he tried to discreetly slip in.

Just a few days earlier he had showed up at camp Golf, a big goofy smile on his face that quickly turned into a predatory grin when they were left alone. Vulpes was surveying some water filtering equipment, checking random boxes on a clipboard while standing under the sun.

The Courier had showed up, walked straight to him, without a worry or a hint of discretion.

“Well howdy, soldier!” he had said, loudly. “Mighty fine weather we're having, don't ya think?”

Vulpes sighed. He turned to check their surroundings, and when he was sure they were alone, he spoke quietly.

“Drop that stupid accent or I swear I'll drown you in the lake.”

The Courier laughed heartily, stomping on the ground.

“Dunno what you' talking 'bout, buddy. You sure want someone to walk by and find good ol Gus talking all... funny?”

Vulpes made his best to ignore him. Arguing with him, or worse, starting a fight, would only put them both in danger. He didn't want to compromise his presence in camp Golf, and he wouldn't let the Courier attempt to ruin everything just for his amusement.

The man made his way to Vulpes in lazy steps, until he was too close for comfort and nobody would hear what he said.

“I can talk dirty in latin, if you'd prefer. Say, if someone walked by that tent over there...” he nodded towards one of the tents covering supply crates. “...and they overheard us talking latin in there... Do you think they'd hang us for being Legion, or for being sodomites?”

His blood boiled in a second, and Vulpes remained stiff, repressing his rage and frustration with all his willpower. His absolute lack of discretion was just one more thing he hated about the Courier. And his inability to put a stop to their illicit encounters was a thing he hated about himself.

It had happened three times. Vulpes couldn't remember why. He tried not to think too much about it. He focused on the hate, the suspicion, the animosity he felt against the Courier. He thought they would help him, make him disgusted at the idea of enduring the Courier's company. The idea of even touching him.

But it didn't work, and the very same hatred he clung to fired up their first real fight. It turned sexual before any of them could inflict real damage on the other. It was over fast, and they didn't speak for three months afterwards. Vulpes wished the Courier had died out there.

The second time began with an apology, a peace offering from the Courier, which Vulpes promptly spat on. In a figurative sense. 

The Courier's smile turned sour in slow motion, standing at the door of Vulpes' tent. He was wearing his full Centurion regalia, armor recently polished, and a new cape of striking red fabric. He even carried his helmet under his arm.

He had walked by to visit Vulpes at the crack of dawn, before going to Caesar, and the fool thought he would appreciate the gesture. More than that, he was a proud man. One who rarely apologized, and only did so to people he respected. Vulpes' cutting reply hurt his ego, and something broke in his mind. Or perhaps his patience ran out.

He walked into the tent and stood proud. Vulpes instinctively got ready to fight. But the Courier merely spoke, in a calm, dismissive voice.

“Get on your knees and kiss my boots, Frumentarius.”

The title sounded like an insult coming from his lips.

Vulpes relaxed, but crossed his arms.

“So this is how it's going to be now, isn't it?” he said.

The Courier quirked an eyebrow, and his smile widened, making him look like a dumb, oversized puppy.

“It could be argued that I outrank you now, Vulpes. So yes, this is how things are going to be.”

He didn't even need to voice the full threat, but Vulpes could feel it in the air. “Accept my apology, or I will torment you”, was the proposal. Vulpes didn't take kindly to threats. And the reality, that the Courier's rank surpassed his, stung just as much.

Vulpes inhaled, then exhaled, and then slowly got to his knees in front of the Courier with no argument. He looked up and saw the pleased surprise on the Courier's face, even more so when Vulpes put his hands on the back of his naked thighs.

Then, using all the force of his body in one extraordinary burst, he grabbed the Courier's knees, and pulled. The man dropped like a log, and in an instant Vulpes was standing, clenching his fists eager for a fight. Only this time, he was smiling.

The Courier looked up at him with a sorry look on his face, but he made no attempt to get up. Thoughtful, he bit his lip and tilted his head.

“Alright. Perhaps I went too far.”

To Vulpes' surprise, the Courier seemed to... get comfortable on the floor. He stretched his legs in front of him, letting the red skirt climb up enough to give Vulpes an immodest sight.

“How about I lick your boots?” he said in a sultry, low whisper.

Vulpes dropped his fighting stance, adapting to the game, growing impatient with the man. He rolled his eyes and sighed.

“You're a degenerate.”

“So you don't like the idea of a superior groveling at your feet? Serving you like a horned out recruit?”

Vulpes didn't let the Courier see the expression on his face, but suffice to say that the Courier's meeting with Caesar was severely delayed that day. The Courier was adamant on his apology, and when force didn't work... He just tried what he described. And Vulpes had been fool enough to fall for it.

But it had been a thrilling experience. Not only to be serviced a couple of tents away from Caesar's, but the way in which the Courier did it. He was messy and hungry, but very thorough. And when he was finished, he didn't ask for reciprocation. He left Vulpes with a wink, and then went to see Caesar. Presumably while hiding a firm erection.

For a brief moment Vulpes believed this was the Courier's olive branch, that he truly was trying to get on his good side. About 30 minutes later a Praetorian walked in carrying orders that he was to report to the Courier from now on, aside from reporting to Caesar. And that's when his job got... unpleasant.

Although pleasure was relative. The Courier took every opportunity to belittle his work, underlining his shortcomings in front of Caesar. Fortunately for the Courier, Caesar's faith in Vulpes didn't seem to falter, or else Vulpes would have put a quick end to their little game. Caesar seemed amused, pleased that having an officer at odds with him kept the Frumentarius on his toes. On the rare occasion where their faked politeness faltered, he even seemed to enjoy watching them bicker.

This went on for ten months.

The third time mirrored the first, as it began with aggression, but progressed into something markedly different.

They were on a Legion outpost, south of Forlorn Hope, beaten and tired after running through the desert in absolute darkness. 

The memory was a haze, but Vulpes remembered being angry, angrier than he had ever been. He remembered pulling out a knife, and hesitating for a moment before trying to use it on the Courier. He choked back a shout, an angry howl born of desperation. It would be unwise to potentially compromise the camp, or let the soldiers outside know what was going on. They struggled for a few moments, until the Courier disarmed him.

Both of them should have died that night. The Courier subdued him, but he was silent, his face grim and solemn. He had fucked up and he knew, and not just because Vulpes put his mouth to his ear and kept repeating it in hoarse whispers. He stopped Vulpes' aggression with little difficulty, but did not attempt to silence him or push him away. He closed his eyes and listened to that mantra, feeling deserving of every word, every expletive.

Their hearts were racing. Vulpes squirmed, he began drifting down the Courier's neck, never stopping his litany of angry words, even as they turned to bites and kisses. The Courier returned the kisses, absent minded, not fully aware of where things were going, but feeling the same burning need arise.

Their sex was angry, and as rough as it had been after that first fight, but their arms were tangled around each other at all times. There was an element of need, of desperation, that wasn't there before. They didn't burn on hate alone anymore.

They twisted on their rough bedrolls until both were satisfied, and when they found themselves laying with their limbs still tangled together, neither moved.

That had been six months ago, and not a night had gone by without Vulpes remembering it. His orders had taken him away from everything, away from him, and he was grateful for it. Out of all three mistakes, that was indubitably the worst.

He looked at his reflection one last time, then put away the bandages and the wet rag. He could hear the whistles and applause now, climbing their way up the camp, all cheering for their favorite Centurion. “Medicus! Medicus!”, some yelled, the affectionate nickname recruits had given him.

He was beloved. He was lauded. 

He was an asshole.

He walked into his tent, hours later, well past dinner time and without asking permission. He looked at Vulpes from head to toe and winced.

“You look like a brahmin ran you over.”

Of course somebody had told him. Vulpes clenched his fists, and put on his most sincere smile.

“It was a bighorner.”

If everybody was going to know, they might as well get the story right. A bighorner was marginally less humiliating than a brahmin, anyway.

The Courier made himself at home on his tent. He laid the fur lined cape on his desk, grabbed some leftover cured meat, and laid by the fire with his dusty boots propped atop a backpack. Vulpes ignored him, wishing he would go away.

“The Caesar wants me to share some information with you.” the Courier said.

That piqued his interest enough to tolerate his presence a little longer. Reluctant, he turned to look at the man with cold, unwelcoming eyes.

The Courier leaned forward and looked to both sides, before talking to Vulpes in a boastful, but hushed voice.

“He's going to announce it soon.”

Like pain from a needle, fear began spreading from Vulpes' belly. This was the moment he had been fearing the most, despite seeing it coming from a mile away. It was the only logical conclusion to the man's ever growing list of victories: Caesar was going to make the Courier his new Legate.

“How soon?” he asked.

“In a few weeks, give or take. He wants everything to be ready.”

Of course, he would have to depose Lanius first. It wouldn't be an easy task, but there were ways to make it as quick and drama-free as possible. The man wouldn't go down without a fight, for sure, but if done well and with the right amount of finesse... Poison, perhaps. Or even an accident around the cliffs. Caesar probably had the right thing in mind already.

And then the Courier would have all of his responsibilities. He would be tasked with taking the dam, and deliver New Vegas on a plate to his Caesar. But along with that duty, he would have all the rights and privileges of a Legate. He would answer only to Caesar, and Caesar would accept all of his whims as long as he delivered on his mission.

Vulpes decided to state the obvious out loud.

“You'll be able to take everything you want then.”

Everything. No more games, no more tricks. If the Legate wanted to take him in front of the entire Legion, he would have to comply or die. And though Vulpes wanted to believe otherwise, he knew the Courier would get tired of their game eventually, and cut to the chase.

He frowned at Vulpes' words.

“What do you mean?” he asked, as he chewed on a piece of soft bread. “I can come and go and take anything from Vegas now. I don't need a dam to do that. This is all for the Legion, buddy.”

A light went on on Vulpes' head. 

The Dam. Caesar was going to take back the dam. Not name a new Legate.

He sighed, still weary, despite feeling a weight leave his chest. Of course it didn't make sense for Caesar to name a new Legate now. They were months, perhaps even weeks away from taking back Hoover dam. It would be plain poor strategy.

Once the tension wore off, Vulpes found himself laughing.

“I misunderstood you.” he admitted, in a rare bout of honesty.

The Courier was looking at him with great interest. His chewing slowed down, and by the time he swallowed the last of the bread, he had pieced everything together.

“You thought he was going to name me Legate, didn't you?” he said, slightly amused.

“I think it would be foolish not to.” he answered, with only a hint of sarcasm.

Perhaps now was not the right time, but even if Lanius survived the assault on the dam, his days as Legate were numbered.

The Courier shrugged, nonchalant. He swapped the empty plate for a bowl full of fresh, diced fruit.

“He loves me too much to make me Legate. The Caesar can't be best buds with his Legate. We all know how that ended the first time...”

Vulpes snapped at the almost mention of the Burned Man, and threw him a severe glance. The Courier raised his hand in an appeasing gesture. He loved behaving like an outsider, even after all this time, but he knew well about that taboo.

He laid back and continued eating fruit, until a thought crossed his mind.

“And you know? I don't need to be Legate to take everything I want.”

Vulpes' cold eyes were fixed on the Courier after those words, waiting for him to continue. The man chewed on one last piece of fruit, then put aside the bowl, and reclined back with his arms behind his head.

“Do you want to know why?” he said.

Vulpes didn't care. Perhaps he already knew.

“Because you're all I want, Vulpes, and I already outrank you.”

Vulpes closed his eyes and smiled, but he only felt bitter. Why did he have to wrap his threat in such sentimental words.

“So, are you going to make me lick your boots now?” he said, looking at said boots, dusty and worn and on clear display.

The Courier wiggled his feet, but shook his head.

“No. But please, do come here. And that is an order.”

Vulpes sighed, but complied. He stood beside the Courier, still lying on his back, fully relaxed and vulnerable.

“I want you to straddle my hips, please?”

“Don't bother with politness.” Vulpes said, as he mechanically raised his leg and got comfortable on top of the Courier. “It's rather pathetic.”

The Courier looked delighted.

“Lean forward. I want to look at you up close.”

Vulpes put his hands on both sides of the Courier's head, and looked him in the eye.

“Gods, you look even worse up close. What did that bighorner do to you?”

It was a memory he'd rather forget, for both the excruciating pain and the humiliation of it. He sighed, annoyed, his last bit of patience close to running out.

Then the Courier was cupping his face, careful not to touch any of his bruises, evaluating them with a critical eye. He now looked genuinely worried, and Vulpes could guess what would follow.

“I should take a look at this one...” the man muttered, appraising the wound on his forehead.

“Okay, that's enough, we're done here.”

He could stand the bossing around, but the medical concern was too much. It was... not right. If he was going to be made to play the slave, he'd rather it not be disguised with fake gentleness.

His attempt to get off was delayed by a brief firm grasp of his arm, and a plead from the Courier.

“Vulpes, please. Just wait. I only have one last order.”

Reluctant, he waited. He was caught on the Courier's eyes, and the strange look in them. It wasn't cunning, or pity, which Vulpes expected.

“Can I kiss you?”

Vulpes frowned. There had been kisses on that last mistake, the third one. On their necks, their shoulders, their torsos... sometimes accompanied by bites. But none had been what the Courier was asking for.

And he was actually asking. Perhaps he didn't want his command after all, just the thrill of having it.

Vulpes couldn't help throwing him a smile. 

“ You're a terrible leader.”

In the end it wasn't the Courier who kissed Vulpes. He didn't trust him to do it right. He leaned forward and closed his eyes, and allowed himself to be briefly lost in the Courier's lips. He had kissed some people while undercover. Never a fellow legionary. It felt... good.

Knowing he could reach for his pocket knife and sink it deep into the Courier's ribs if he wanted to felt good, too, in a different way. It gave Vulpes a certain level of security. Enough security to feel comfortable. Enough comfort to... stay.

To stay, staring into the Courier's eyes, breathing the same air, feeling the man who held power over him tense and heat up under his own body.

“I know what you want.” Vulpes whispered. “You want to play the gentle master with me.”

The fire was embers now, and without any torches or lamps lit, the tent was full of shadows. They could catch the glimmer of their eyes and their bodies in the soft glow of the fire, but everything else was nothing but abstract darkness.

And they remained silent for a few long moments, while the Courier thought about something to say. Vulpes merely smiled, and in the darkness he had never looked more like a fox. 

He was frightening.

**Author's Note:**

> PS: don't forget to go check that kinkmeme! Maybe leave a comment there, read around other prompts, or write fills for them? It would be nice to get a kmeme going for f/f and m/m Fallout material.


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